A Story of Love
by Bukkunkun
Summary: And those rare few days in the world where the sky is grey but the wind is cool and soft like a lover's touch, and the climate was cool enough to warm yourself up by burying yourself in a simple sweater and luscious hot cocoa, those were the days like Arthur Kirkland, and should have been so named on the calendar. USUK, Teacher/Student AU.


This was written to both satisfy my craving for USUK and for an assignment/challenge thing from my Creative Writing class this summer. It's been so freaking long since I wrote some USUK and I feel like I owe my followers/readers something, so here it is!

It's based VERY HEAVILY on Ray Bradbury's _A Story of Love _because I absolutely fell in love with the way he wrote the story, so I decided to try and see if I could write something like what he could. So there.

I hope you guys enjoy! It's been a while since I USUK'd.

* * *

That was the week young Freddy Jones learned of his new school teacher. It was the autumn of his thirteenth birthday, and it was the autumn when Arthur Kirkland was almost twenty-five.

Arthur Kirkland was a most memorable teacher to most people, for he was the kind of teacher for whom all the children would fall silent at a single glance in silent awe at his ethereal elegance as slim fingers moved through the air with the grace of a king butterfly, and for whom they would cautiously navigate through the classroom, trying their absolute hardest to not tap their little toes on loose floorboards or strewn-about pencils so as to not disturb the peace in the classroom with a single loud noise. He wasn't feared, however, for he was that man who would always pass by the great oak tree during grey days, his footsteps light like the maple leaves flying in the cool wind of their little rainy town, his face still bright and shining in spite of the low, grey light of the oncoming storm, a simple black umbrella in one hand like a walking cane, and in his other a flower or two he had picked up from the forest road leading from his home to the city square, where the great oak stood. He was light from a candle in a dark room in the middle of a raging hurricane, and he was soothing chamomile tea for a stressful Monday evening. And those rare few days in the world where the sky is grey but the wind is cool and soft like a lover's touch, and the climate was cool enough to warm yourself up by burying yourself in a simple sweater and luscious hot cocoa, those were the days like Arthur Kirkland, and should have been so named on the calendar.

As for Freddy Jones, he was that boy who would shine brighter than the streetlamps at night with his smile alone on any evening, no matter what the weather, the darkness around him dissipating like shadows evaporating under the light. You would see him often laughing and playing along with the other children in the playground, always at the head of their little ragtag pack, undaunted such that even the heat of the sun would not stop his little adventures. Or you might hear him singing nonsense words and bright tunes in the bushes by the great oak tree, skipping merrily on his way, the tattered laces of his trainers leaping in time with his feet's bounding, or playing his violin to his brother and grandmother in a little jig that always roused bright laughter, smiles and clapping, audible even from the second-floor balcony double-doors. He was always so positively radiating with warmth.

That morning, Arthur Kirkland stepped into their classroom, his form the most prim and proper form any of the children had seen, and all of them sat still as the man came to a halt at the desk, looking at the children, now silent as they peered back into his big green eyes.

"My name is Arthur Kirkland," he said, his voice soft and soothing, as he turned and wrote his name in big, looping letters. "I'm your new teacher."

The room, once buzzing with excitement and nervousness, washed over with a sense of calm, like a candle doused with a bucket of water, as if the walls fell away, and cool, fresh spring water flowed into the room and all around the children, and the water's gentle trickling was all around them. Freddy Jones sat with a slingshot in his hand, smooth pebbles he had picked up from the lakeshore by his home ready in his other. After fifteen minutes of listening to Mr. Kirkland, he quietly wormed his hand into his bag and let the pebbles fall in, followed by the slingshot.

That day, after class, he stepped into the room, all-smiles and his hands clasped behind his back.

"What's this?" Mr. Kirkland asked, looking at him from his desk, where he had been poring over a journal and several papers written in his handwriting.

"Whatcha doing?" the boy asked, rocking on his heels, his big baby blues eyeing the man's work on his desk.

"Writing, my boy," he replied.

"Writing what? Stories? I like stories."

A smile, unguarded and sincere, crossed Mr. Kirkland's face, and he nodded. "Do you like reading?"

"Yessir," Freddy nodded, "D'you mind if I read here? It's a bit noisy at home."

Mr. Kirkland looked at him for a moment, before gradually smiling, and he reached for one worn, leather-bound book sitting at the corner of his table. The other two it stood next to tipped to the right and rested on the paperweight that served as a bookcase. "Of course." He nodded, "Why don't you give this book a go?"

Freddy took the book, smiling brightly, before heading to the seat across Mr. Kirkland and began to read.

After an hour, when the clock in the city square struck five-o-clock, Mr. Kirkland spoke up again. "You're Freddy Jones, aren't you?"

"Yessir."

"Well, I must say I'm very glad you enjoy reading; very few children do so."

"Could I do this every day?"

"Don't you think you should let the others try?"

"I like this book." Freddie smiled, "And I don't think I could take this home. So I'll read it here. Every day."

Mr. Kirkland smiled, and chuckled softly. "Oh, alright."

He lingered.

"I think it's time for you to run home," the man said, finally.

"Good night," he walked slowly, and was gone.

The next morning, he passed by the ivy-twined walls of his home just as he was coming out to walk to school.

"Well, hi." Freddy smiled.

"Well," Arthur chuckled, "I'm not surprised."

They walked together.

"May I carry your books?" He asked.

"It's alright, I can manage, my boy."

"Okay," the boy nodded, but he looked sullen. The older man chuckled, shaking his head fondly, before handing him the same book he had been reading the day before. Freddy's eyes were wide with surprise as he took the leather-bound book, his mouth hanging agape.

"You haven't finished this yet, haven't you? Why don't you try reading while we walk?"

Freddy's look of surprise melted away to a wide smile and he did as he was told, flipping the book open to the page he was on the day before (which was, frankly, not that far from the cover) and began to read, slipping his hand into his teacher's, almost surprising the man. Arthur looked down at Freddy, before chuckling, shaking his head and gripping the smaller hand in his tightly to lead the boy on as they walked.

They walked in silence to the little school, and Arthur glanced over and down at the boy walking next to him—that little smile on his face as he read the book was so content, so happy, it was clear that the boy was at such ease. He decided to let the boy break their silence, but he never did, and soon they reached the gates. "I prolly should leave you here," Freddy spoke up, handing Arthur his book back. "The other guys wouldn't understand."

"I'm not sure I do either, Freddy." Arthur replied.

"Why we're friends." He replied, earnestly, the look of complete and utter honesty so brutally clear in the boy's blue eyes.

"Freddy—" he started to say.

"Yessir?"

"… Never mind," he dismissed, and walked away.

Freddy smiled at his retreating form. "I'll be in class," he said.

And he was, and he was there after school every night for the next two weeks, completely silent as he sat down across Arthur, reading his way through the maroon book as he worked on his papers and writing, and there was the pregnant silence of the calm four o-clock afternoon, the soft whisper of the sun's goodbye as it sunk down beneath the horizon, the murmur of papers shuffling around Arthur's desk and the rustling of journal pages turning, the scratching of a pen and pencil alike, and perhaps the light tinkering sound of a little curious robin tapping at the topmost window pane trying to enter, to see what the silence was all about. The silence would go on like this until almost five, when Arthur would find Freddy Jones just sitting down on his seat, smiling at him, waiting for him to speak.

"Well, it's time to go home," Arthur would say, getting up.

"Yessir."

And he would run to fetch his hat and coat as he packed up his papers and neatly put them in his briefcase. He would lock the schoolroom door behind them after they left, unless the janitor was coming in later. Then would then walk out to the now-empty yard together, and would talk of all sorts of various things.

"What would you like to be when you grow up, Freddy?"

"Oh, I'm gonna be a super-awesome baseball player!" the boy grinned widely at him, "I'm going to score tons of home runs and I'm going to win so much medals!"

Arthur chuckled. "Never one for sports, I was."

"You like writing, don't you? You're gonna be a writer!"

"Yes, it's a rather big ambition; plenty of work."

"Oh, but I've read what you wrote. They're all great!"

"You knew those were mine," the teacher sighed, and the boy grinned at him.

"Of course! I mean, they were bound just like the books in the library are, but I could tell they were written by you." The boy smiled, "It was just so… you."

The teacher glanced at the boy, pausing slightly. "… Well. Haven't you anything to do after school?"

"Whatcha mean?"

"I mean, I hate to see you kept in so much, all quiet with me inside the room."

"I like it," Freddy shrugged, "I do what I like."

"But still,"

"No, I've got to do that," he declared. He thought for a while, and then said, "Could you do me a favour, Mr. Kirkland?"

"Well…"

"I walk every Saturday from my house to the lake in the forest. There're lots of butterflies, and tadpoles, and birds there. Maybe you'd like to walk, too?"

"Thank you."

"Then you'll come?"

"I'm, sorry, but no."

"But don't you think you'll have fun?"

"I'm sure I will, but I'm afraid I'll be busy."

He wanted to ask what he would be busy with, but he stopped.

"I take along sandwiches," he spoke up, his tone sounding a little more desperate, "PBJ's. And orange pop and just walk along, taking my time. I get down to the lake at about lunchtime and then walk back home at around 3. It's great; I wish you could come. Do you like dragonflies? Sometimes they'd come out and I'd catch some. I collect them; do you want one?"

"Thank you, Freddy, but no. Maybe next time."

The boy's expression fell, "I shouldn't have asked, shouldn't I?"

"You have the right to ask anything you want to, my boy," he assured.

A few days later, he found a copy of _Huckleberry Finn_, and decided he didn't want it anymore, so he gave it to Freddy. The boy was grateful, and took it home, and the next morning, he came to class with puffy red eyes and rings under his eyes, and they talked about it that morning. Each day now he met him right at his little home and he would start to say, "Freddy—" and ask the boy to not meet him anymore, but he never could find the voice to tell him that, and opted to fall silent, or to say something else instead. On one morning, he found a dragonfly on his desk, and he briefly wondered how it got there when the windows were closed, but then he realised it was dead, and he glanced over at Freddy, who was intently staring at his book—not reading, just staring.

It was then that he realised it had become impossible to call the boy on in class. He would hover his pencil over the box next to his name on his class record, hesitate, and then call on the student before or after him on the list instead. Nor would he look at the boy as he discussed arithmetic and English in class, or when they would walk to and from school. But on most afternoons when they sat together in the classroom, quietly busy with their own articles of writing, he found himself watching the boy and his expressions as he read through the second book on Arthur's desk for seconds at a time before returning to his work.

And then, one Saturday morning, as Freddy was standing in the lakeshore, watching tadpoles swimming about his feet, he looked up to see Arthur standing by the other side of the lakeshore, not too far away from him. He smiled.

"Well, here I am," he grinned, laughing.

"Well," Freddy smiled, "I'm not surprised."

They caught little tadpoles in their hands cupped like bowls, and fed the robins that flew down to them with the crumbs from the sandwiches, and caught a dragonfly that had whizzed past Arthur's right ear. Eventually, as high noon passed, the two sat down together beneath a tree and Arthur pensively sipped at his orange pop.

"This tastes horrific," he stated, and the boy beside him laughed. He smiled slightly, and sipped it again. "But I've never had a more fun time in my life."

At this, Freddy merely smiled.

"I didn't think I'd ever come on a picnic like this," he confessed.

"With some kid," the boy added.

"I'm comfortable, though."

"That's great."

They fell silent after that, and said little else until three o'clock drew near.

"This is totally wrong," the boy said, "And I can't think of why it should be. Just walking along and catching tadpoles and dragonflies and eating sammies. Mom and Dad and Mattie would gripe at me if they knew, and the other guys would, too. And the other teachers, I suppose, would laugh at you, wouldn't they?"

Arthur sighed. "I'm afraid so."

"I guess we shouldn't do more catching then."

"I don't actually understand why I came here in the first place." Arthur replied.

And the day was over.

The next Monday, though Freddy waited a long time, he didn't see Arthur come out of his home that morning, and only discovered later that he had gone to school earlier and was already there. That same afternoon, he left early, claiming a headache, and a substitute finished his classes. Freddy walked by his house but he didn't see him anywhere, and he was afraid to knock on the door to ask.

On Tuesday evening, when they were both silent in the room again, contentedly sitting there together as if the peace and happiness would go on forever, when suddenly the clock tower in the city square tolled five o'clock. The bell's loud, clear ring sent a shockwave through the room, shattering the silence between them, jolting them back to reality and pulling them away from the quiet little world. Arthur looked up at it for a long time, and put down his pen.

"Freddy," he said, and the boy looked at him, panic clear in his honest eyes. "Will you come here?"

He nodded silently, closing the book (he had already finished reading the final page) and slowly pulled his chair in front of Arthur's desk, setting the book down next to its other companions on the desk reverently. Arthur took a deep breath.

"Freddy, I wonder if you know what I'm going to talk to you about. Do you know?"

"Yep."

"Maybe you told me, first?"

"About us." He simply stated, and Arthur swallowed.

"How old are you, Freddy?"

"Going on fifteen."

"You're fourteen years old."

Freddy frowned. "… Yessir."

"Do you know how old I am?"

The boy nodded. "Twenty-five."

Arthur slowly nodded.

"… I'll be that age in ten years!" the boy burst out. "… Almost."

"Unfortunately, you're not that age right now."

The boy crossed his arms, and frowned.

"Calm yourself, Freddy, it's very important that we understand what is happening, alright?"

The boy merely nodded.

"Well, then. Firstly, we are the best friends in the world. I'll admit that I've never had a student quite like you, Freddy, nor have I had such affection towards anyone I've ever known." Here, the boy flushed, but he continued, "And let me speak for you—you've found me to be the best teacher of all the teachers you've ever known."

"You're more than that," Freddy replied, and at this Arthur flushed.

"Perhaps," he stammered, "But there are more things to be faced at this current moment. I've thought over this for a long time, Freddy, and I doubt I've missed anything regarding your and my feelings on this matter." The boy nodded. "Our friendship is not of the norm, Freddy, and whatever had evolved here had been with regards to your true character and goodness, I'm assured."

The boy opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur shook his head.

"Freddy, those aren't the things considered in this world, unless they occur in people of a certain age… and gender." The elder man swallowed. "I don't know if I'm saying this right."

Freddy sighed, and leant back in his chair. "… If I was just ten years older, and you or me a girl, then I'd have nothing to be ashamed of?" he said, and the elder man winced at the boy's words. "… That's so…" he paused, searching for a word, "… So _silly_."

"The world hasn't found it silly."

"But I'm not the world," he protested.'

"I know it seems dumb," Arthur sighed, "But unfortunately, that's just how things go. Maybe someday they will able to judge the oldness of a person's mind so accurately, that they could say he was a man, even if his body was that of a child's, but until that day, Freddy, I'm afraid we're going to have to find a compromise."

"I don't like that."

"Me either, but we have to; do you want to end up unhappier than you are now? We will be if this… whatever this is, will surface. There's nothing we can do about us—it's so strange to even talk about _us_."

"… Yessir."

"But at least we know that we have been right and fair and that there's nothing that we did that was wrong with our friendship, nor did we intend that it should be, because we both understand how impossible _this_ is, don't we?"

"… I know, but I can't help it."

"Well, now we must act on it. I can get a transfer out of here—"

"N-no," Freddy cut him off, surprising him. "My family, we're… we're moving out of town. Next week. It's just 50 miles away, but _still_…"

"It has nothing to do with this, does it?"

"No, my dad got a new job there." Freddy assured him. "I can come visit you, can't I?"

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

Freddy fell silent, his silence speaking louder than any word he could have said in reply.

"When did this all happen?" Freddy asked helplessly.

Arthur laughed. "No one ever knows. Not for thousands of years now, and I don't think they'll ever will. People like each other, or not, and sometimes people like each other but shouldn't."

"… I guess I should go home now, right?"

"You're not mad at me, are you?"

"I could never be mad at you, Mr. Kirkland."

The elder man smiled, and he shook his head. "Arthur." He simply said, and the boy smiled. "And one more thing, I want you to remember that there are compensations in life; you don't feel well right now, and so do I, but someday something will happen to fix that. Do you believe that?"

The boy nodded. "… If only…"

"If only what?"

"If only you'd wait for me,"

"For ten years?"

"I'd be your age, then."

"But I'd be thirty-four and another person entirely, perhaps. Isn't it impossible?"

"Wouldn't you like it to be, though?" Freddy cried.

Arthur fell silent for a moment. "… Yes," he said quietly, "It's silly and would be a nightmare to work, but I'd like it very much."

They sat in silence for a long time.

"I'll never forget you." Freddy said.

"That would be nice, but life isn't that way, Freddy. You'll forget me."

"I'll never forget. I'll find a way to remember you."

Arthur remained silent, and Freddy smiled at him one last, sad smile. His small hand ghosted over Arthur's, and for a moment, they brushed, feather-light against each other, barely a whisper of skin against skin, and then he left the school. Looking back, outside, he saw Mr. Arthur Kirkland, for the last time, at his desk, silently poring over papers filled with wonderful stories and journals with scribbled notes and bits and bobs of poetry.

He moved away from the town and was gone for twelve years. Though he wasn't that far away from his old town, not once did he come visit his old home, not until he was halfway done with his twenties and granted a college degree in Astrophysics, and one day, on the long drive to his new life at the Johnson Space Centre, he stopped off for a day.

Freddy parked his car near his old school, and after some wandering about, finally asked about Mr. Arthur Kirkland, but no one remembered at first, and then one of them remembered.

"Oh, yes, that calming young man. He died about eleven years ago, not long after you left."

He felt his heart fall down to his stomach.

Had he ever married? No, come to think of it, he never had; not even with the new laws passed that allowed any sort of marriage around here.

He walked into the cemetery in the late afternoon, when the sun was just off to the left of the middle of the sky, and the shadows a little longer than before. The wind was rustling the trees around him, leaves of orange, red and yellow fluttering all around him as they landed under his feet, crunching with every step he took through the graveyard.

He found his stone, and he sighed, his shoulders slumping as he knelt down in front of it, tracing the bold white lettering against black marble. "You were twenty-six. I'm just as old as you are now… Arthur."

Silence, punctuated by whispering autumn wind and rustling leaves calmed him down, much like a familiar feeling that he had felt wash over him so many years ago, and he sighed, sitting down on the cool earth beneath layers of flaky red leaves, and leant against the cold black marble of the stone, thinking back to those autumn days when he was standing in cool, crisp lake water, with tadpoles in his hands and bird feathers in his hair, and he smiled.

"Pardon me," a voice spoke up, and he turned to see a young man around his age approaching the tombstone, a single rose in his hand. "That's my uncle's grave you're sitting next to. Are you a friend?"

And Freddy stared; for as the man passed by the oak tree in the yard, his footsteps were light like the maple leaves flying in the cool wind of their little rainy town, his face bright and shining in spite of the low, grey light of the oncoming storm, a simple black umbrella in one hand like a walking cane, and in his other the rose in a simple plastic bouquet and ribbon. He was light from a candle in a dark room in the middle of a raging hurricane, and he was soothing chamomile tea for a stressful Monday evening. And those rare few days in the world where the sky is grey but the wind is cool and soft like a lover's touch, and the climate was cool enough to warm yourself up by burying yourself in a simple sweater and luscious hot cocoa, those were the days like this man, and should have been so named on the calendar.

"Of sorts," he replied, standing up. "I didn't know Mr Kirkland had a nephew?"

"I even look like him," the man laughed, shaking his head. "Much like a clone," he rolled his eyes, and smiled at him, eyes bright with mirth, "We even have the same name." He held out his hand for him to shake. "Arthur Kirkland."

He smiled, and shook the stranger's hand. "Alfred Jones."

"Alfred Jones," Arthur repeated his name, and smiled, for it sounded like honeyed sweets that were just right for a cool afternoon like this, and he nodded. "Well, would you like a coffee after this?"

"I'd like that, yeah." Alfred smiled, still not letting go, and neither of them minded.

* * *

Okay, adding a comment here for that anon that had a little beef with reasoning. Thank you for paying attention! :D I'm glad you read this through properly.

Now, to explain myself: this story was based on a short story written some 50+ years ago, where there wasn't as much problems regarding child predation as there are now. Also, in the way Arthur explains their situation to him, I tried to show that Arthur still thinks of Alfred as a child; he didn't want to break the entire thing to him, in spite of how much they feel for each other. It would be easier (and kinder, in retrospect) for Arthur to tell him "what would the world think" rather than "the world would think I'm just a predator to you." Also, this story relies heavily on imagery and implied actions and thoughts to tell the story, so I'd rather let the simple explanations do the talking for the more undermined issues. Thanks! :D


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